Where Nobody Knows Your Name
by Kae Kae
Summary: Seventeen year old Shawn has found a bar he knows he and Gus can get into. Gus isn't so sure it's such a good idea.


This story stemmed out of a prompt I found on a friend's livejournal: _"A Thousand Jokes begin with "A guy walks into a bar." Walk a Character into a bar and describe what he or she sees, hears, smells. Is this the first visit? Or a regular stop?"_

And I just couldn't get Shawn out of my head. Which is surprising, since the story ends up being from Gus's point of view.

I hope you enjoy seventeen year old Shawn and Gus, and their first trip to a bar. :)

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**Where Nobody Knows Your Name**

Gus knew this was a bad idea. A terrible idea. A nervous glance to his best friend's huge grin confirmed that yes, this was the worst idea he'd agreed to in his seventeen years, mainly because Shawn thought it was brilliant.

"Shawn, this isn't going to work," Gus grumbled as he planted his feet. Of course the bar that Shawn thought they had the best chance of getting into had to be in a rough part of town. Even from where they were standing, Gus could tell this bar was a place best avoided. Music spilled out into the street, although it just seemed to be the _boom-boom-boom_ of too much bass. Neon red-and-blue letters advertising _Happy Hour_ (the 'y' had burnt out) flashed their reflection off the wet pavement, and the dim flickering streetlight reminded Gus of something out of the horror movies Shawn liked. A few people gathered around the streetlight to smoke, and even though it was only 9:30 a man was already passed out with his bottle against the scratched brick wall, right next to a particularly colorful expletive scrawled in hot-pink spray paint. Whenever Gus inhaled he felt like he was suffocating on smoke, stale beer, and the acrid smell of urine.

The place even had a horrible name: The Pit. Gus didn't want to know how a bar got such a name, but Shawn grabbed his arm and yanked him further toward The Pit of Stale Beer and Pee.

"Gus, really, now is not the time to channel your inner Cameron Frye." Shawn countered easily. "It's totally going to work. You just hand them the ID," he stopped to demonstrate the complicated motion in the air, "and you're in!"

"But my name isn't Baracus Humperdink. I'm not 58 years old. And did you even look at this picture?" Gus thrust the plastic card into Shawn's face, finger stabbing the picture of a pale male, face full of wrinkles.

Shawn seemed unperturbed. "So you have that Michael Jackson thing, in reverse. And you've had work done. I think you look great." Turning toward The Pit, Shawn's grin widened. "Dude, don't worry. It's definitely going to work."

Glaring, Gus countered, "And what makes you so sure?"

"Because that guy?" Shawn pointed his thumb toward the bouncer. "He can't see so well in the dark, but trying to play it off like he can see just fine so he doesn't lose his job. We're good." Shawn crossed the street, effectively ending the argument.

"I hate it when you do that," Gus mumbled, following his best friend toward The Pit of Their Possible Demise. Gus hated it even more when Shawn was absolutely right; Night Blind squinted at their IDs and let them in.

Gus re-evaluated his assumptions from the street and decided he's underestimated the nastiness of the bar. At least he understood the name now – this place was probably the first level of Hell. The place wasn't exactly crowded, but the space toward the booths seemed full of people hidden by the shadows of poor lighting. His body vibrated along with the bass line of the song blaring out of the speakers, making Gus wonder if it was physically possible to be shaken apart (he sincerely hoped not). The black linoleum did nothing to hide the stains and grime. Gus forced himself not to dwell on what he was stepping on as he and Shawn approached the bar.

Gus knew there was no way that bar was sanitary. The same stains on the floor seemed to creep up most of the bar, although the top was wiped clean. A few wobbly barstools surrounded the old wooden bar, the red-vinyl on top ripped and worn. No way was he sitting on those.

Shawn slapped both hands on the bar as if he owned the place, although Gus could tell he was wary of their surroundings by the tension in his shoulders. "Good sir," he announced, "my friend and I would like two beers."

Turning toward the sound, the bartender's dark eyebrows arched high at the sight of the two. Beady eyes swept back and forth between them, sizing them up. Gus gulped. "What, you allowed out after curfew?" he yelled to them over the thumping bass.

Panic set in instantly, and Gus opened his mouth to confess that they used fake IDs and it was all Shawn's idea and he was being held against his will and please call help, but Shawn kept his cool and laughed the comment off. "Yeah, just last week somebody offered Baracus here a binkie. Now, two beers."

The bartender smirked as he ran a hand through his greasy hair (Gus grimaced, wondering the last time that hair had seen any sort of shampoo). With an amused snort, he filled two glasses from the tap. Shawn slapped some money down on the bar, all teenage bravado. "Keep the change, man," he grinned as he picked up the beers, and led Gus toward the unoccupied tables.

Gus took his eyes off the surroundings to watch his best friend. Shawn's eyes seemed focused only on their destination, purposely ignoring his surroundings. Gus tried not to roll his eyes, or worse, really think about why Shawn was fascinated on a table with two chairs. If he took the time to think about that, he'd have to dwell on why Shawn was really here at the most disgusting bar in town, and why he'd agreed to go along.

Besides, bringing any of that up would put Shawn on the defensive, and the last thing Gus needed was to be stuck in The Lowest Level of Hell with someone angry enough to leave him there by himself.

The tables seemed to be the only place to hear anything, although the two still had to yell to be heard. As the two sat, Shawn pushed some hair out of his eyes and looked back at the bar to look at the bartender as he turned served other customers. "He's no Sammy, huh?"

Gus pulled himself from his thoughts. "What? There is no way you know the bartender's name, Shawn-"

"You don't know that. Although he looks more like a Clyde to me. Maybe a Baracus -" Gus shoved Shawn with a frown, swearing silently to himself he would never ever let Shawn pick out another name for him as long as he lived. Undeterred, Shawn continued. "But come on man, you got this one. Sam Malone."

"The bartender from Cheers?"

Shawn's face brightened. "See? I mean, he's not exactly friendly and inviting. Although he does have his very own Norm." Shawn pointed to the distraught man sitting on the end of the bar. "I bet that guy's here every night. Drinking away his failed marriage, bitching about being a plumber."

Gus decided not to point out how Shawn was putting Henry's skills to use without even thinking about it. Instead, he replied, "Why would somebody willingly be a plumber? You'd have to have no olfactory nerves."

"That, and a love for the numbers one and two." To sell his own terrible joke, Shawn took a large gulp of his beer, immediately grimacing at the taste.

Gus took his own smaller, cautionary sip and spit it back into the glass. "Oh my God. It's pee. That bartender served us pee." Using a cocktail napkin to wipe off his tongue, Gus turned back to glare in the direction of the bar.

Shawn was already taking another drink, face contorting as he swallowed. "Gus, it's not piss. Its beer, and you will drink it. Man up."

Gus stopped his frantic mouth-cleaning to snap back, "I will not man up, Shawn. We are in a bar in a bad part of town. My heart's out of rhythm because of the stereo. My shoes are ruined because of the floor. I don't even want to know what the smell is coming from that corner over there. You ordered us the worst beer ever, which we shouldn't even be drinking because we're minors-"

Shawn launched across the table and covered Gus's mouth. "Seriously, you want us to get thrown out of here? If we're getting thrown out, it needs to be for something cool, like picking a fight over the pool table or defending some woman's honor..." At that, Shawn frowned, looking around as if he'd figured something out a few minutes too late.

Gus joined him, focusing on the people around the bar instead of the revolting scenery. Now that his eyes had fully adjusted to the lack of light, he could see the people by the booths were all men. Men who were standing very close to one another. Some doing more than just standing.

"Oh my God. I don't believe this." Gus punched Shawn across the table. "You snuck us into a gay bar? Probably the skeeziest gay bar in Southern California. Did you even check this place out first?"

Shawn looked a bit sheepish, but refused to back down. "You're overreacting. Look on the bright side - now it makes more sense why Norm's wife left him, huh? Running his hose-"

"Don't even finish that sentence, Shawn."

"Ok." Shawn raised both his hands in surrender. "And in my defense, it's a butch gay bar - it's not like there's frills and purple streamers. Or a sign that says, "Gay Bar" in rainbow letters." Shawn paused, eyebrows drawing together. "Although now I know what that triangle in the window means."

Gus sighed the sigh he saved only for Shawn's idiocy.

"Dude, come on. I picked this place because I knew we could get in. That's the important part, yeah? So drink up! My treat."

Gus shoved his beer across the table angrily and crossed his arms. "I'm going to kill you Shawn."

"After I finish my beer. While you're waiting, I think the man by the cigarette machine thinks you're cute."

"Shut up."

"Just be glad that nobody knows your name, Baracus."


End file.
